


Encounters

by General_Canoodle, jennyaxe



Series: Correspondence [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Crossover, I blame Astolat, Just a witcher fic that happens to mostly happen in Discworld, M/M, Mention of attempted rape, Not really a Discworld fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2018-11-17 08:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Canoodle/pseuds/General_Canoodle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennyaxe/pseuds/jennyaxe
Summary: Thanks to my lovely fox for beta!Also, I blame Astolat; she started it, withMisethere.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely fox for beta!
> 
> Also, I blame Astolat; she started it, with [Misethere.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9168430)

“I need to speak to Yennefer. Now.” The sorceress on the other side of the megascope arched a perfect eyebrow. Geralt wondered, irrelevantly, if there was a specific class on eyebrow raising that all sorceresses took; every single one of them he’d ever met had it down to an art form.

“Perhaps you do, witcher, but I have no reason to believe that _she_ wishes to speak to _you_. In fact, I am certain she does not. Pray go -”

Geralt really did not have time for this: “Yeah, yeah, I know. Tell her it’s not about me. It’s about Ciri. You know, Cirilla? Yennefer’s foster daughter? Also the daughter of the emperor you’ve sworn fealty to, in case you’d happened to forget.”

The sorceress’ eyebrow drew down to join its fellow in a frown. Before she could do more than draw breath to speak, Geralt went on:

“Listen. Do you really think _I_ would be contacting her unless this was really important? Trust me, if she doesn’t listen to me, she’ll regret it. Which means that unless you talk to her, _now_ , she’ll make _you_ regret it. Cirilla needs her. Tell her that. _Please_.”

“Very well,” the sorceress sniffed. “I shall inform her. You may wait by the scope.”

  


Of course, Yen couldn’t show up directly. No, she had to take a little time, to make herself pretty, to make him stew, to show him that he was most definitely not of any importance to her, that she wouldn’t hurry to do his bidding… Ordinarily it would only have been a small annoyance to him, that she cared so much about showing how little she cared. This time it just wore him down: that she should play games while Cirilla’s life was at stake reminded him of the worst times in their relationship, before their shared affection for their foster daughter had become the basis of the fragile peace between them.

Long before Emhyr had shattered them.

Geralt took a deep breath, calming himself. That didn’t matter, now: not their history, not her feelings for him nor his ones for her, if he had even been able to tell what they were.

Finally, he saw a flash of motion through the scope as Yennefer swept into the room.

“Well, Geralt,” she said in a voice that could have given him chilblains. “How have you managed to hurt, lose or otherwise harm her _this_ time?”

It had been nearly two years since they last spoke, and he knew very well that she was the least to blame for what had happened. Getting furious at her for still being angry, still knowing exactly where his weak spots were and how to poke them, would be counter-productive: he really couldn’t afford to alienate her further now. He made sure that his voice was reasonably calm as he answered:

“She’s an adult now, Yen; she’s really very capable of getting into trouble without me.”

“Very well; what kind of trouble has she gotten into that requires my intervention? And stop calling me that!”

“We need you to come here, to Kaedwen. There’s an artefact, it was found in -”

She interrupted him, in her coldly furious voice: the one that would have made him duck for cover if they'd been in the same room instead of speaking through the megascope.

“An _artefact_? You want me to come look at some paltry toy you’ve found in the rubble after one of your conquests? I can’t believe the gall…” Her voice got rapidly louder, to the point where his ears began to hurt: witcher senses had their downsides, as he’d learned in previous quarrels with her.

“Doesn’t _Emhyr_ have mages that could look at the thing?” she went on, acidly. “I can’t imagine _he_ wants me there - or has he grown tired of you and is hoping I’ll take you off his hands? If so - “

Geralt interrupted before she could get launched properly.

“Yen - Yennefer - _please_. There is nobody who knows more about portals than you: the court mages here have other specialties, and they’re centuries behind you in any case. If you won’t help, fine I’ll find someone else - Triss, maybe, but… If you need me to beg, I’ll do it, _anything_ , just help me get her back!”

Yennefer’s glare turned down a notch: apparently she was either worried enough about Ciri, flattered enough, or she had tired of the verbal fencing. Knowing her, probably the first two, he thought sourly.

“Very well. Tell me what happened.”

#  


They had been in Kaedwen, some ways north of Ban Glean. The skirmish was a small and unexpected one: Ciri and her personal guard had run into some mix of Redanian soldiers who refused to yield, and bandits and robbers who had gotten enough of a taste for murder that Emhyr’s offer of amnesty wasn't even on the cards for them. They really weren’t ready for what came crashing down on them: few casualties on the Nilfgaard side, and Ciri barely got her sword wet.

Emhyr and Geralt had been back at the camp, about an hour’s ride from the battlefield: there was still work for a witcher to do, sorting out the remnants of the necrophages Radovid had done his best to spread. Most of it was dealt with: soldiers could be trained to beat them by a combination of the right equipment and sheer numbers, now that the war was basically won, and they had trained dogs to search for unburied bodies.

Ciri had come back, tired but smiling, happy to join them for a meal in the evening. She’d also brought some loot back: the bandits had had some sort of magic on their side, not enough to even remotely affect the outcome, but she knew the dangers of leaving any of the paraphernalia lying around - at best, someone would hurt themselves, at worst, they’d hurt a lot of bystanders. She’d had the servants bring in some statuette, a pretty one, and she and Emhyr had bent over it to take a look…

The flash was so bright that it took him a few seconds to get his sight back, and by then they were gone. The imperial guards had come running, and they had summoned the sorcerers that had been travelling with the army, but none of them were of any use whatsoever. They agreed that neither Ciri nor Emhyr had been killed, at least not immediately, but they also couldn't say where they were - or how to get them back.

#  


“I take it they tried the usual locating spells? Locks of hair, that kind of thing?” Yennefer said, most of her anger put aside for the present, replaced by a sharp focus on the problem at hand.

“Yes. None of them worked. They gave us nothing,” Geralt replied. He had managed to keep his cool until now, but his voice cracked a little on the last syllable. Yennefer turned her head away, and rose.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll come. Where do you want me to teleport to?”

“I'm in Ban Glean now - it's about five hour’s ride to the camp, but it was the closest megascope. You can come here and ride back with me, or we can meet there, if you prefer to teleport directly. You’ll know the spot, we stopped there a couple of times on the way north from Vengerberg - that meadow at the brook, a few miles before the road splits in two, towards Ban Ard and Ard Carraigh.”

“I’ll meet you at the camp,” she said. “There are some things I will need to pack, and you can get back there faster if you don’t have to wait for me.” With a softer voice, she continued: “We’ll find her, Geralt. We'll get her back.”

#  


During the entire ride back, Geralt kept repeating those words to himself. He hadn't actually been certain Yennefer would help: he knew she loved Ciri, the closest thing to a daughter she would ever have, but she had a highly developed talent for keeping grudges, and he hadn't been sure that it wouldn't have extended to Ciri as well. It was only two years since she'd left them: not nearly enough time for her to forgive him, if she was ever going to. If he even wanted her to.

The important thing was, she was going to help - and regardless of their tangled and messy past, he knew that once she was committed to a course of action, there would be very little that could stop her from seeing it through. And when it came to Ciri, he knew he could trust her to the ends of the earth, and beyond.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the sky above, she saw what she expected: not a single constellation that she recognised. Well, it wasn’t the first time in another world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [General_Canoodle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Canoodle) for beta!

The first thing Ciri noticed was the cold of the cobblestones she was lying on. The second was the smell: cities always smelled, but this was worse than most she’d been in. And it didn’t just smell _bad_ \- it was slightly off, as were the noises coming from the street the alley opened onto, some thirty yards further away from the dead end where she found herself. The sounds were those of a a city at peace, people moving and talking freely - but the cadence and the pitch were just the tiniest bit wrong. As a child in Kaer Morhen, she’d been taught to notice sounds and smells in a way most people didn’t, and her time with Geralt later had only made her better at it. She didn’t have witcher senses, only unenhanced human ones, but they were enough to let her say for certain that this city held elements she had never encountered before, not in any of the worlds she’d visited. Except… the stink from the river: it certainly wasn’t the Pontar, or the Buine, or any of the other rivers in the North, but still it somehow made her think of Emhyr’s study, first in Vizima and then in the palace in Novigrad.

She got to her feet and looked up. In the sky above, she saw what she expected: not a single constellation that she recognised. Well, it wasn’t the first time in another world, and it seemed that at least she only had herself to look out for - whatever had happened when she touched the artefact, it had affected her alone. Now, if only Emhyr and Geralt would have the good sense to not try to come after her… as long as they were both safe, it wouldn’t matter much if it took her a while to find her way back home. Geralt, at least, should know her skills well enough to trust that she’d manage; hopefully he would be able to convince Emhyr, if her demonstrations over the past two years hadn’t been enough.

Of course, she also had no way of knowing _when_ she was; it was night here, and the last thing she remembered was late afternoon. This might be only a few hours later, or days, or years, or it might not even be the same century. Not that that actually mattered much - Ciri was Lady of Time and Space both, she would be able to return not too much later than she’d left.

She shut her eyes and focused, thinking of the camp, of Emhyr’s tent, of the late afternoon sun when she last saw it. She drew on her power, and -

Nothing.

She could _feel_ the power, a deep well within her mind, but as soon as she reached for it, it slipped away from her mind, as water from a sieve. She tried again and again, focusing as hard as ever, trying to recall the first time she’d been shown how to travel between worlds - she knew just how it should feel, just how her mind would seize the fabric of space and time and let her pass through… but still she failed, over and over, until she was left drained and sweating, leaning her forehead on the cool brick wall. She rested for a few moments, catching her breath while trying to keep the panic from taking over. She hadn’t felt this helpless since she’d been in the hands of the Aen Elle, before…

No. She refused to allow herself to be helpless: she still had her sword. And, hearing the sounds of running feet and panicked sobs coming towards her, she drew it.

The crying woman looked young, and she stumbled in her high heels. The man following her was slowing down and calling out: “Here girlie… There’s no use running, you know, you’ll just make me angry. Come on, girlie, you know you want it…” The woman stumbled to a halt when she saw Ciri’s naked sword.

“Girlie…? Come out, come out, wherever you are!” The man was closer, walking slowly, inexorably, certain now of his prey.

The ‘prey’ gave Ciri a glare, and made an irritated gesture towards her. “Put that away!” she hissed. “Get down! Don’t let him see you!”

Ciri raised her eyebrows at the woman, but obediently stepped deeper into the shadows, taking care that no stray light would reflect from her blade as the woman shrank back against the wall. Even if she couldn’t portal, she’d still be faster than most men; she’d be well able to step in if the situation required it.

“Please… No, please leave me alone! I said no already!” The girl was crying again, the strength of her glare hidden under her loose hair.

“Oh, girlie, that doesn’t mean anything… you always say no, but you always want it.” The man got close enough for Ciri to see him clearly; he appeared well dressed and sober, and smiled genially at the young woman’s attempts to press herself into the wall.

“I should have listened to my friend… she told me about yesterday…” the girl sobbed.

“Yesterday? The little redhead? Oh, she never had it so good… she was a tease, just like you, but in the end she wanted it. Just like you.” He grabbed for her arms, but quicker than Ciri’s eyes could even follow, the girl ducked down and around and twisted his arm up behind his back.

“Thanks for the confirmation,” the woman said, no trace of fear remaining in her clear voice. “You’re under arrest, for the rape of Anna Brook, Joan Wellington, and at least four other women. And we’ll see how many more come forward now that they don’t have to fear you coming after them again!”

The man tried to pull loose. It didn’t work very well: his face went grey and he would have fallen down had the woman not held on to him. Ciri stepped forward, her sword sheathed.

“Neatly done,” she said. “Need any help with that?”

“No thanks, I’ve got it,” she answered. “I’m Lance-Constable Humpeding, by the way. How did you get here? The alley was empty when I checked it out ten minutes ago, and I didn’t notice anyone walk down here.”

“It’s a long story…”

“How about coming along with me to bring this bastard to the station? You’re a witness to the arrest after all… and you can tell the story on the way, unless you’d prefer to keep it until we get there.”

While the invitation wasn’t delivered at the point of a sword, Ciri felt reasonably sure that this was only because the officer was certain she already had all the power she needed to enforce compliance. And while she would probably have been able to fight her way free, she would prefer not to start hostilities until she knew more about her options.

“Sure,” she said, and took up position on the other side of the rapist, half a step ahead so the officer would be able to keep her in sight, and she’d still be able to help grab the man if he decided to try to make a break for it. She was careful to keep her hands well away from her weapons: she had already seen enough to know that this woman was at least as fast as Geralt. In fact, it was possible she was even faster; triggering her fighting instincts was very unlikely to lead to any place Ciri wanted to go.

She got an approving nod from the officer, and a “Let’s go, then.”

Lance-Constable Humpeding directed her - left at the bigger street, then a right, across a bridge, and they could see the station; they entered to approving cheers from the officers on duty. She turned apologetically to Ciri:

“I need to get this fine specimen booked into a cell. Would you mind hanging around so my captain can talk to you about what you saw?”

She was really good at this, Ciri reflected - there was nothing at all in her manner to suggest that the phrasing was anything but a mere courtesy, though both of them knew that would change the moment Ciri stepped out of line.

“I’ll be happy to oblige,” she replied, smiling politely.

“Thank you,” the officer replied, with the exact same level of smiling politeness. “If you’d be kind enough to wait there, second door on the left? Captain Angua will be with you in a moment.”

#

She didn’t have to wait long for the captain; a tall, beautiful woman, with long blonde hair, who moved with the unconscious grace Ciri recognised from the best of the fighters she had known: innate talent honed to perfection by years of training.

“Would you like a cup of tea? It’s horrible, but at least it’s hot, and you look like you could do with it.”

“No thanks,” Ciri said. “I’d rather you just get on with asking me whatever it is you want to ask.”

“First I’d like to thank you; Lance-Constable Humpeding tells me you were about to step in to help her.”

“Yes.”

“Not many people would go out of their way like that, for someone they don’t know.”

“No?”

“No,” the captain replied, and fell silent.

For an interrogator to keep silent was an old trick. It often worked; most people would get nervous and start talking, saying anything that came into their head just to fill the silence. Others would start asking their own questions, hoping to gain some leverage or information, but usually giving away far more than they gained.

Ciri said nothing.

The captain kept looking steadily at her for nearly a minute, before she broke into a smile.

“Look. You’re not under suspicion, but you _did_ just show up, literally out of thin air, in an alley in the middle of our city. No, you didn’t walk or fly into it; we had several officers watching the place, and you would have been seen. And your clothing and weapons don’t match anything I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot of the continent…” She paused, giving Ciri a chance to talk. When that failed to happen, she went on: “The obvious conclusion is that you arrived by magic - either from one of the other continents, or from some other world entirely. From your appearance, I’m more inclined to believe the latter. And given where you arrived and how you’ve behaved since you got here, I’m inclined to believe that you didn’t come on purpose to invade us. Am I mistaken?”

This time, the captain allowed the silence to linger on while Ciri considered her options. She still didn’t know much about the place, but it seemed reasonably civilised - she was obviously in some sort of city watch station, and the woman had neatly and accurately described her situation. Since something was stopping her from creating her own portal home, she _would_ need help - which meant that she would have to trust _someone_.

And if trusting this watchwoman would turn out to be a mistake, she _did_ have her sword; even without portals, she could still fight.

“My name is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon var Emreis,” she said. “Please call me Ciri.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If my father trusts you enough to write _this_ , then so do I,” Ciri said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this chapter; please feel free to blame me for any and all mistakes!

Sometime during the explanation, tea had been brought. It wasn’t quite as horrible as captain Angua had suggested, but not far from it; nevertheless, she drank it thirstily, needing the warmth. Captain Angua took in everything she said with an unexpected calm, as if she was very used to this kind of thing - which, given her initial accuracy in deducing where Ciri came from, was perhaps not unlikely. Once Ciri was finished, the captain leaned back and looked thoughtful.

“Would you consider it likely that someone from your world would be able to follow you here?”

Ciri pondered the question a few moments.

“It’s not impossible. I know of one other person who is able to travel through existing portal between worlds, similar to what I have been doing, but he’s not been seen in years, and I don’t know if my father will be able to contact him. But there _are_ sorceresses, they can create portals _within_ our world. And since someone has created an object that can transport a person to this world, I should say that it’s only a matter of time until someone else figures out a way to repeat it - at least, unless the spell actually used my own power to create the portal. That might make it more difficult.” She shrugged. “But I wouldn’t expect it to happen any time soon. If it was as easy as just touching the statuette, as I did, Geralt would already be here, together with a sizeable guard. Since he isn’t, we have to assume that it’ll take some time for them to figure out a way to follow - if they ever do.”

Captain Angua nodded. “That is a reasonable assumption. The wizards here might be able to open a portal from this side, but I have no idea how long it will take them to figure it out. Which means we need to plan on your staying for a while,” she said, rising from her seat. “And given who you are and what kind of help you’re going to need, I think we should begin by talking to the commander.”

As they stepped out of the room, they were met by a dwarf with a very long beard, wearing the same uniform as the Captain, but with a very long skirt of heavy leather instead of Angua’s practical trousers.

“Captain? The commander wants to speak to you, out in the yard. He said to bring the lady, too.”

“Did he get Humpeding’s report already? Did he actually _read_ it?” the captain asked, with evident surprise.

“No, captain… I think you’d better go out to him,” the dwarf said.

“All right then; thanks, Cheery,” the captain said, heading towards the door with Ciri in tow. Outside, a tall grumpy-looking man, dressed in a somewhat scruffy Watch uniform, was leaning against the wall and smoking: tobacco rolled up in a small paper tube, instead of in a regular pipe. He pointed to a carriage: “Let’s go. We have an appointment.”

“Sir, do you -“ Angua started.

“Yes, of course it’s Vetinari,” he grumbled. “You’re coming too. And Humpeding is already in the carriage,” he added, stubbing out his smoke tube and waving them towards the vehicle. Two guards, not in the same uniform as the watchwomen, followed them to the carriage.

“Vetinari?” Ciri asked quietly, looking at the captain.

“Lord Havelock Vetinari - he’s the Patrician, the ruler here,” she replied.

The carriage ride was only barely long enough for Ciri to give the commander a condensed version of her story, with some support from Humpeding. The commander made a few pertinent observations, agreed with Ciri’s and Angua’s conclusions, and muttered a few choice words about the general untrustworthiness of magic, magic objects and magic users. Under the circumstances, Ciri found herself unable to disagree with him.

They were ushered into a long rectangular room - “ _the Oblong office_ ”, Humpeding whispered - dominated by a desk. Behind it was seated a tall, thin man, dressed in dusty black, with a well-kept black beard circling his mouth. In a basket behind the desk lay a small ugly dog, contentedly chewing some sort of rubbery object.

“Thank you, your grace,” the man said. The commander’s scowl deepened at the title. “How very kind of you to bring our guest. If you and your officers would kindly wait in the antechamber, I should like a word in private with her.”

Commander Vimes started to speak, apparently thought better of it, shrugged and turned to walk out, followed by the others. The lance-constable offered Ciri a small encouraging smile as she walked away.

“I am speaking to the princess Cirilla of Nilfgaard, I believe,” lord Vetinari said. His voice was deep and cultured, reminding her of Emhyr’s, only without the slight Nilfgaardian accent.

“You are,” she answered. “My felicitation on the speed of your information; it _is_ less than an hour since I gave my name to your Watch officers.”

“Their reports have not yet been delivered to me. However, I did receive information that a person suddenly appeared by magic in this city. As I already had your picture in my possession, the description sufficed.” He held out a small charcoal drawing of Ciri; it looked like one of the sketches the artist had made two years ago, when she and Morvran had posed for the picture commemorating their wedding.

“The sketch was sent to me by your father, with whom I have been corresponding for some time. However, I am quite aware that as yet you have no reason to trust anything I say. It is far from inconceivable that one of your father’s enemies should arrange for a magical ‘accident’ to transport you to a hitherto unknown place in order to interrogate you at their leisure; something that would be easier if they could convince you of their friendship. Likewise, your resemblance to the portrait is not sufficient for _me_ to trust _you_ : it is equally possible that someone wishing Emhyr harm might send someone _looking_ like his daughter here, trusting to delays in communication to prevent an early disclosure. Therefore, I believe that we should start by both establishing our _bona fides,_ as it were.”

Ciri’s thoughts spun furiously. Emhyr had never given the slightest hint of having any correspondents outside the continent, much less on another world, and his sending a _sketch_ rather than a portrait pointed towards a degree of friendship that astounded her. On the other hand, one of his enemies sending someone to _steal_ the sketch was not at all unlikely… and if she were brought here by enemy action, the spell used could also explain her current inability to create a portal. Though, in that case, she would have been more likely to trust someone who claimed to know nothing of her world, than someone claiming to be in correspondence with her father. It would have to be a fairly stupid enemy to think this scheme up - still, it wouldn’t be the first time one of Emhyr’s many enemies had overplayed their hand.

On the third hand, hearing this man out would at least give her more information on which to base her decision. And the fact that he, as the ruler of this city, did not even mention the possibility of her being used to harm _him_ was interesting in itself…

“How would you suggest we go about this, lord Vetinari?” she asked. “My father has never mentioned your name, or that he has corresponded with anyone outside of our own world. I was brought to this world against my will, and the events at my arrival might have been orchestrated to play on my emotions. And anyone who might vouch for you is your subject, making their recommendation somewhat less than entirely reliable. I see little possibility of allaying any suspicion I might have.”

“I suggest that we start with an exchange of information”, he replied. “On my part, I have some that is not common knowledge: the affliction the Emperor suffered some two years ago. As I understand it, it is known to only six or seven living people other than the Emperor himself - you, your foster parents, the sorceress Philippa Eilhart, your father’s advisor Dijkstra and the bard Dandelion. Possibly also his friend Zoltan, since Dandelion appears unlikely to keep anything completely to himself.

This knowledge on _my_ side should be sufficient for Emhyr’s daughter to understand that I, at the very least, have some considerable knowledge about the workings of the Imperial court. In return, I ask for something that can no longer harm him - the name of the affliction. Since he has since been cured, your telling me that can do him no harm, even if I were his enemy.”

Ciri nodded, unable to find any flaw in his logic. “It was misethere,” she answered, “and in return, I should like you to tell me when and where he was cured of it.”

In reply, lord Vetinari handed her a piece of paper from his desk. She recognised the handwriting even before she started reading:

  


_Dear Havelock,_

_The cure worked._

_Geralt left this morning. You know how rarely I yield to my emotions; still, I could not bring myself to ask him to stay, even for Cirilla’s sake._

_I misjudged him badly, and more than once, to my sincere chagrin. And yet, seeing what these events have brought my daughter - the trust and awe of her soldiers, the respect and admiration of her future husband, and the public approval of her as my heir - I ought not to regret my actions._

_Novigrad is ours, and will remain so, in large part owing to the acquisition of the three leaders of the local criminal networks. While I do not propose to quite emulate your methods, I certainly appreciate their usefulness in the current case. Were I sentimentally inclined, I might add that I shall make sure to not squander his last gift to me… though in this case, sentimentality and reason are aligned._

_You will pardon me for not having the time for a longer letter, I am sure; this day will be a busy one._

_Emhyr_

  


The letter was dated two days after they had taken Novigrad.

Ciri looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Yes. If my father trusts you enough to write _this_ , then so do I,” she said.


	4. Chapter 4

Ciri awoke in an unfamiliar room, bright with morning sunshine. It took her a few moments to recall where she was and why; then it all came flooding back. Too much had happened in too short a time, and she hadn’t really had the time to make sense of any of it. Probably the strangest of all was reading the letter from Emhyr to Havelock… She had known, of course, that Emhyr had been unhappy at Geralt’s leaving; he had unbent enough to let her see that, once and once only. After that, he had brought his usual iron-clad composure to bear, and had deflected all her attempts to bring it up again. The one time the mask had slipped, just a little, was when she told him that she wouldn’t request her foster mother’s presence at her wedding; he had relaxed, minutely, before thanking her for the information. She had made the choice as much for Yennefer as for Emhyr: Geralt had left them both, but under the circumstances, it wasn’t exactly a case of shared grief bringing the two of them closer together.

It seemed that writing to this Vetinari had been the one way for Emhyr to actually acknowledge his own regrets; he’d certainly never shown her anything other than complete confidence in himself and his actions. And naturally there would be nobody in their own world that he’d trust enough to actually talk to; at least, not until Geralt returned… Someone in a different world, who could be no threat on his own empire, couldn’t be used against him, and who might even be his intellectual equal - probably that was the only person he actually _could_ be open with. 

Last night, Vetinari had appeared to have the same near-mystical ability as Emhyr to draw correct conclusions based on what, to anyone else, was very little information. Questions had been unnecessary: _of course_ he knew that she had the ability to open portals; _obviously_ she wouldn’t still be here if her abilities were unimpaired; _obviously_ her visit to this world was unplanned; _obviously_ her father did not know where she was. The one thing he wasn’t able to immediately deduce was how much time, to the second, had passed in her world after she left it - he and Emhyr had verified that time normally passed at the same rate in both worlds, but that didn’t necessarily mean that her transit hadn’t cost her a day or two. However, Vetinari showed her Emhyr’s last letter, which had arrived only two days before; when she read it, that matched up with her own timeline. She found herself sitting down, weak-kneed; until then, she hadn’t allowed herself to realise how much she had worried. But as best they could tell, the transit had been close to instantaneous; she’d been pulled from early evening in her own world to close to midnight in this: the normal difference, according to Vetinari.

The means of communication he and Emhyr had been using was simple: a small travel writing desk, the kind that would hold a supply of paper, ink and pens, and would fold out into a flat surface for writing on. “It was found in an old storeroom, in the cleanup after the previous Patrician”, he told her. “Some years ago, when I found that the ink levels and quality of paper changed while I wasn’t using it, I left a message in it. The response came from your father, who found it in his own matching travelling desk. The text on the lid, ‘ _Gemini geminos quaerunt_ ’, can be loosely translated as ‘Twin calls out to twin’,” he added, handing her pen and paper. “Please let your father know that I will put the resources of the city at your disposal, to ensure your safe return. Is Geralt with him, do you think?”

“Yes - I don’t see why he wouldn’t be,” she answered, surprised at the non-sequitur.

“Good.” He gave her a small pouch, smelling of some spice or herb she didn’t recognise. “Emhyr will have no reason to be monitoring our mail box at such a time; this should draw Geralt’s attention, if you enclose this with your letter.”

Ciri swiftly penned a few lines, to Morvran as well as to Emhyr, and shut the box on them. She could only faintly smell the spices when the lid was closed: certainly enough for Geralt’s enhanced sense of smell.

Vetinari called the others back into the room. It turned out that the commander of the Watch was also the Duke of Ankh-Morpork, and apparently also the designated provider of temporary accommodation for wayward princesses. There was an obvious undercurrent of irritation on his part, and amusement on Vetinari’s, that Ciri filed away for later consideration; none of it seemed directed at her, and she had too much to think of to focus on their interplay. She did appreciate having captain Angua put in charge of her personal guard during her stay, and Humpeding immediately appointed to it. 

She knew that the box hadn’t been opened in her own world; she could still smell the faint trace of spice, so it was still in there. Presumably both Emhyr and Geralt were busy having the court mages working on figuring out where she’d gone; possibly Emhyr kept his box in their sleeping area, and even Geralt might not smell the spice from the other side of the flap… there was really no reason to worry. Still, she found waiting hard, as always; especially when she had no way of knowing what was happening at home. 

Ciri had to agree, reluctantly, that the box should be left at the palace; the secret of its connection to its twin in her own world was unknown to them both, and they didn’t want to risk that any change of holder might affect its working. By the time the Duke and captain Angua walked her back to the carriage, her feet were slow and her steps verging on the uneven. Even though, to her body, it was only late evening rather than the middle of the night, she _had_ been in a battle - albeit a minor one - and unexpectedly finding herself in a different world was wearying in itself: sufficient explanation for her unusual weariness, perhaps. She barely remembered getting out of the carriage, being greeted by Vimes’ wife, a very kind, very large woman, and shown to this room, where she had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and Ciri don’t have any kids yet. If you had, and Ciri and the child were both at risk? No matter how much you love her, the child comes first. Always will, even when they’re grown.”

When Geralt got back to the camp, at mid-afternoon, he found the place in an uproar. Yennefer had sent the mages scurrying in all directions - which was fine, he had already told Wolreg that she would be in charge, and the mage had been abject enough about his own lack of success that he’d been happy to let someone else shoulder both the responsibility and the blame. 

Morvran was stationed outside the tent, making damn sure that nobody interfered with Yennefer’s work, and the first thing he said as Gerald came up to him was “She says she’s alive somewhere,” and Geralt felt his knees sag with relief. 

“She also says not to disturb her, yet,” Morvran continued, eyeing Geralt’s road-worn appearance and calling for an aide to bring food: Geralt suddenly realised that it was nearly twenty-four hours since he had last eaten, and half of that time had been spent in the saddle.

“There’s one thing that worries me, though,” Morvran said.

“Yeah,” Geralt replied. “If she’s well, why isn’t she _back_? She’s lady of Space and _Time_ \- even if something stopped her from creating a portal back immediately, she’d still be able to come _back_ immediately from _our_ point of view.”

“Precisely,” Morvran nodded. “Since she hasn’t, there must be something stopping her - which means that she’ll need outside assistance to come back. Therefore, Lady Yennefer must find where she is, _and_ a way to open a portal so that the three of us can go through, with a company. Some of the other sorceresses wouldn't come amiss, either.”

“Yeah, all of that. Except _you_ aren't going,” Geralt said flatly.

Morvran looked outraged: “Sir Geralt, you might do me the courtesy of remembering that Cirilla is _my wife_. I will not allow -”

“Yeah, you will. Because you might do _her_ the courtesy of remembering that she is the _crown princess_ , and that makes you the next Emperor, and the _current_ Emperor is _also_ missing. How happy, exactly, do you think she’s going to be if you go off gallivanting to save her and leave _nobody_ in charge here?”

“Not _nobody_! There’s Dijkstra, and -” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “And the Nilfgaard nobility is going to listen to _Dijkstra_ , are they? They're not _at all_ going to start scheming to pull the rug out from under Emhyr and Ciri - and you - starting about twenty-four hours ago? Your family doesn't have any enemies, nobody who'd be wanting to take your place as the heir apparent?”

Morvran looked… as if he’d like to argue, only his brain was currently in control of his mouth and wouldn’t let him. Geralt continued:

“You actually _are_ needed here. _I’m_ not. If Yen is right, if they’re still alive, I’ll bring them back. If not… Well. You don’t need to worry that anyone who’s hurt Ciri will live to boast about it,” he finished, grimly.

“Very well,” Morvran said. “I cannot say that I like it, but you _are_ right. You bring them back, I will make sure there’s still something for them to come home to.”

He looked at Geralt for a few heartbeats, and then said: “Sir Geralt, I hope you will pardon my mentioning it… but I cannot help but notice that you have spoken mainly of Cirilla - not of the Emperor.”

Geralt looked right back at him, with a steady gaze. “You and Ciri don’t have any kids yet. If you had, and Ciri and the child were both at risk? No matter how much you love her, the child comes first. Always will, even when they’re grown.”

He took a swallow of beer, and went on in a less steady voice: “Besides, she’s his child too… and there are very few things he wouldn’t sacrifice to keep her safe, we both know _that_.” Morvran nodded, and fell quiet: he, too, had some recollection of the things Emhyr had done, to himself and others, for Ciri’s sake...

The quiet was broken by Yennefer coming out of the tent. Both men rose and turned hopeful faces towards her, as she sat down by the table and reached for the food. Her pale face and tired bearing showed the hours of work she had already put in, and Geralt knew that if anything had changed, for good or for ill, she would already have said so; still, it was an effort to not immediately pester her with questions.

After a few swallows, she turned to Morvran and started talking:

“The statuette is a deliberate trap. It’s keyed to the var Emreis bloodline - I’m not sure how well focused it is, so you probably shouldn’t get too close either, Morvran; you're not very closely related, but I shouldn't like to take the chance.” She paused for a few more mouthfuls, then continued:

“I’m fairly certain it was created on Radovid’s orders. It’s quite badly made, the spellwork is very sloppy and unskilled, which would be the best that bastard had access to. Unfortunately that means that whoever made it has probably been burned, so we won’t be able to get any help on deconstructing it. But it’s definitely a spell to cause the target to be transported somewhere, not to harm or kill them.”

Geralt let out a sigh of relief - not that he hadn't trusted Morvran’s words before, but hearing it directly from Yennefer made him more relieved than he could express.

“But if a transport spell is all it is, then where did it transport them to? And why can't Ciri transport them _back_?” he asked. 

“As far as I can tell,” she replied, still looking only at Morvran, “it was supposed to transport them to the Royal Court in Redania, presumably to the dungeons. But I don’t believe that’s what happened - even Wolreg should have been able to locate them, if that’s where they ended up… But to be on the safe side, I contacted Castle Vraden, and Phil is going there to make sure they’re not unconscious in a dimeritium cell or something.”

“If it didn't send them to the intended area, there must be a reason for the error. Have you any notion of what may have caused the dysfunction?” Morvran asked.

“The most likely cause would be either damage or overlap with another spell. You may have heard of the Tor Lara portal? It was permanently unstable, there was no way of telling where you would end up if using it - spit out in the air over a desert, for instance… That can happen when the portal is damaged, or when there are too many portal spells in the area. In this case, I can’t see any actual damage, but the spell itself is so lacking in focus that it may have been affected by some nearby teleport spell. For instance, if Ciri had happened to touch it near a megascope, its target might shift to the location of a corresponding megascope. Geralt, what are you -”

Geralt was already on his feet, on his way towards the tent. “Will it disturb your work if I go in there, without touching the thing?”

“No - why? Do you know something?”

“Maybe,” he replied, and went into the tent, followed by Yennefer and Morvran.

The area around the statuette was now littered with Yennefer’s paraphernalia, but otherwise the tent appeared no different from when he’d left, the previous night. Except that there was now a distinctive spicy smell, that had _not_ been there before, emanating from a chest near Emhyr’s work table. Geralt went straight for it, rummaged a little, and took out a small box: the kind a scribe might keep a small bottle of ink and a some of the good paper in. 

Inside the small box were a few letters, and a small pouch - the source of the smell. Geralt handed the box to Yennefer

“This thing - it’s a kind of very small portal to another world. It’s Emhyr’s, he’s been using it for messages. Would it be enough to twist the transport spell?”

Yennefer stared at him. “It might… it’s a very small portal, but if it goes far enough, that might still be a strong enough spell - it could be enough to twist the trap, there was no shielding at all on it… Has it been used a lot?”

“Usually a couple of times per week, I think. I don’t actually go through his mail… but I know he’s had it for years. This is new, though. Clever of him,” he said, tossing the small pouch of spice to Morvran. “Put this away somewhere,” he added.

“Why? Is it dangerous?”

“Unlikely. Be easier for me to tell if there’s a new message if the whole tent doesn’t already smell of it, though. And Yen might be interested in it; it’s not from this world.”

Two of the letters were in Ciri’s handwriting, one of them addressed to Morvran, the other to Emhyr and Geralt combined. The third letter was from Emhyr’s regular correspondent, addressed only to Emhyr. 

Geralt handed Morvran his letter, and sat down heavily. The only reason for Ciri and Vetinari to write to Emhyr would be if he was _not_ with them - which would mean that Ciri was in Vetinari’s world, and Emhyr was… not. Mechanically, he opened Ciri’s letter, hoping against hope for some clue to Emhyr’s whereabouts.  

  


_Dear fathers,_

_First: I am well. As you have no doubt already surmised from finding this letter, I am in the city Ankh-Morpork; and, since I have already been here several hours, I am assuming you are somewhat concerned for my well-being. There is no reason for such concern, save on one point: I find myself unable to create portals. I cannot say whether this is caused by some property of this world, or whether there is some other reason that has restricted my ability._

_Havelock has told me of your correspondence, and wishes me to assure you that he will put all possible resources towards finding a way to send me back. I have described the statuette to him, in case it should have a twin here - but I find that unlikely; if it were so easy as to touch it in order to travel, I would expect Geralt to already be here. However, I have been informed that portals to other worlds and planes of existence have been created by the local wizards before, so I have good hope that they will be able to help you._

_With all my love and respect,_

_Your daughter_

_Cirilla_

  


Geralt passed the letter on to Yennefer, while he opened the other one. It was a lot longer than Ciri’s, having received a number of additions after the first part.

  


_I cannot but be happy to have made the acquaintance of your daughter, though I should have wished that the visit had not taken place in circumstances which must cause you great anxiety and worry._

_I have just spoken to Ridcully, who is putting Ponder Stibbons to work creating a portal back; I can think of no better man for the challenge. He will use the bag of spices as a focus to direct the portal; I have given him the other half of the ribbon used to tie it. Should your mages or sorceresses require a focus in their attempts, this may be useful for them as well._

  


_1 p.m._

_Stibbons informs me that he will be able to create a “portal generator”, though it will not be ready until tomorrow. He is also looking into the possibility of communication directly; I should wish for your anxiety to be relieved as soon as possible, rather than having to wait for the chance that you notice the letters. A device that could transmit sounds would be more useful in the current situation._

  


_5 p.m._

_To relieve both your and Cirilla’s anxiety, we made an attempt to improve communications: Stibbons created a small structure that could be imbued with the ability to move, and used a strand of Cirilla’s hair as a focus to direct it to her nearest relative. It should have been able to open the box from the inside, to locate you and hand you a letter; however, the thing ran off on its own accord before it could be placed in the box. Stibbons is now fully focused on the portal generator, which he assures me should be ready for use tomorrow._

  


Geralt folded the letter up again and sighed. “Okay, good news: Ciri is safe, and hopefully on her way home tomorrow morning. Bad news: Nobody knows where the fuck Emhyr is.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer said quietly, “Geralt, do you want me to fail?”  
> “What?” Geralt stared uncomprehendingly at her.  
> “It’s a simple question. Do you want me to fail to send you after him?”

“Lady Yennefer, you said you sent someone to check the Royal Castle in Roggeven,” Morvran said. “Have they reported back yet?”

“He’s not there,” she replied. “Phil went through the castle, she would have noticed any shielding against scrying, if there had been any. Geralt, I’m -“

Geralt nodded. “All right. Do you have _any_ way of tracing where this piece of crap sent him?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t know how long it would take.”

“Could you send me after him?”

“No, it’s tied to the var Emreis line, it won’t affect you at all. Except…” she frowned a little. “Maybe we could trick it, make it think you’re a var Emreis, if I could adjust it to match your blood instead of his. It would take some time, though, and there’s still no way of knowing that it’ll send you to where _he_ is, or even to where Ciri is. You could just as easily end up someplace else altogether.”

“Let us not be hasty,” Morvran interjected. “First, we are reasonably certain that the reason for the spell sending them to another world is that it was affected by the spell on the box, are we not?” Yennefer nodded agreement. “Then, as you have found no trace of any other such spells here, it is likely that the Emperor is in the same _world_ as Cirilla, even if not in the same city. Therefore, before sir Geralt rushes off into the unknown, let us ask lord Vetinari to attempt a location spell on _that_ world. If the Emperor _is_ there, we can then make an attempt at using the artefact to send sir Geralt after him. If not, we should at least let Cirilla have a say in the decision.”

Geralt _really_ wanted to find a way to argue with him - it’d be nice to have someone to fight, even an ally instead of an enemy - but there really was nothing to argue _with_. Morvran was _right_ , damn him, and also apparently it was _his_ turn to be the sensible one, which somehow felt highly unfair. He gave a sour nod of agreement.

“Lady Yennefer,” Morvran continued, “do you have any way of sending _sound_ through to another world? Perhaps if we could transport a scrying stone through? It would speed things up considerably if we could communicate by a more direct means than the writing of messages.”

“I’m not sure scrying stones would work - their use requires magic, and if something’s interfering with Ciri’s powers, we shouldn’t rely on them… but there’s something else: a device Vilgefortz created, a xenogloss. It consists of attuned pairs of very small caskets - you open one, and it transmits sound to the other. We found some at the Tower of the Swallow; we’ve not been able to replicate them, so far, but there are a few pairs at Vraden. They’re small enough that I think one of them should fit in the letter box - I’ll ask Phil to bring a pair here. I could do with her help in figuring the wretched thing out, anyway.”

“ _You_ need help figuring a spell out? Didn’t expect that,” Gerald said.

“As it happens, Philippa is very skilled at unravelling spells on artefacts. I’ve learned to work well with her, during the last couple of years,” Yennefer replied, stiffly. “If you want the spell on that thing modified, or traced, you need her.”

“First of all, we should inform Cirilla of how matters stand here, and request that Lord Vetinari orders his mages to search for the Emperor,” Morvran said. “Lady Yennefer, how soon can we get the xenogloss here?”

“It shouldn’t take more than half an hour at the most; Philippa knows where they are, but she’ll need to teleport twice.”

“Then please contact Lady Eilhart as soon as may be. Meanwhile, do you perhaps have a small item imbued with the scent you customarily use? I should like to send a message to Cirilla, while we wait for the lady sorceresses.”

#

Philippa brought two apprentices, one carrying the two small xenogloss caskets. The other - the one who had first answered the megascope - came up to him, with a sullen expression, and said, “Sir Geralt, I have to beg your pardon; I did not at first comprehend the gravity of the situation, or I should have brought lady Yennefer to the megascope quicker. Please forgive me.”

She didn’t exactly sound sincere, but a sorceress actually admitting to a mistake was an extraordinary event in itself, so Geralt decided not not make more of an issue out of it. “Yeah, fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, that’s very gracious of you, Geralt,” Philippa Eilhart purred. “I’m afraid Mariona is a bit overprotective at times; quite unnecessary in this case, of course.”

“Protecting Yen? From _me_? Yeah, I’d say so. If any of you think I’d try to harm _Yen_ , you’re -“

“Oh no, Geralt, dear. I’m afraid she’s a bit protective of _me_. Well, of Yen _and_ me. Young people are so _very_ romantic, aren’t they?” Her satisfied smirk and Yennefer’s faint blush drove the point home, if the words hadn’t been enough on their own. Geralt looked from Philippa to Yennefer and back again; then hastily shut his mouth, which had somehow fallen open on its own. It really wasn’t any of his business, and it wasn’t as if _he_ was in any position to have opinions on anyone else’s choice of partner, but still - _Philippa,_ of all people?

Morvran broke the awkward silence: “Lady Philippa, thank you for coming. May we have the caskets? I should like to speak to the Princess as soon as may be.” The apprentice handed them over; the letter box was only just large enough for one of them. Morvran managed to fold the lid down over it with an effort: now they only needed to wait for Ciri to open it and start talking to them. It didn’t take long; after only a few minutes, her voice emanated from the tiny device, only slightly distorted.

“Hello? Are you hearing me?”

“Yes!” “Finally!” “We hear you!” Geralt, Morvran and Yennefer all called out at the same time.

“Hold on,” Ciri answered. “One at a time, please. Who is there? Yen - mother - is that you?”

“Yes, I’m here. Also Geralt, Morvran, Philippa and two of our apprentices. Who’s with you?”

“Only Havelock - Lord Vetinari.”

“Has he got anyone looking for Emhyr yet?” Geralt asked.

“Yes,” a deep voice answered. “I have sent out messages to my agents around the continent; we should expect the first responses within the hour. Should we not find him by that means, I shall ask the Arch-chancellor to initiate a search by magic, as soon as the transportation device is finished, and Princess Cirilla is safely returned to her home. I trust you all agree that her safe return must have priority.”

“We do,” Geralt answered decisively, the others chiming in with their agreement.

They spent some time settling the plans for sending Ciri home the next day, and Ciri made Geralt promise to actually get some sleep - “You’ve been up for more than twenty-four hours; if you’re going to be of _any_ help in going after my father, you need to be rested. Take satura if you have to. Morvran, please make sure he does as he’s told.” Vetinari promised to call them through the xenogloss as soon as he got news from his agents; though it was already near midnight in his world, he seemed to share Emhyr’s ability to work at all hours.

#

Afterwards, Yennefer and Geralt went back outside the tent, to let Philippa and the apprentices work on the artefact in peace. He held on to the xenogloss, shifting it from one hand to the other, but not putting it down for a second.

“How the hell could this piece of shit artefact fail so _spectacularly_?” he muttered. “Bad enough that it could somehow miss its target by, oh, I don’t know, _several worlds_ , it can’t even keep the victims together? I _really_ hope Radovid burned the idiot who made it, it’d be an easier fucking death than what I’d like to give them…”

Yennefer said quietly, “Geralt, do you want me to fail?”

“What?” Geralt stared uncomprehendingly at her.

“It’s a simple question. Do you want me to fail to send you after him?” Yennefer said, a challenge clear in her dark eyes.

“What? Why would I want to - Yen, what the -“

“If we get Ciri back tomorrow, and we fail to find him… You’d be able to stay with her, without -“

Geralt groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. He _really_ didn’t want to have this discussion, not ever, and definitely not now.

“Yen, I’m not with him because of Ciri. Her position has been as safe as it can be, since Novigrad. I’m with him because _I_ want to.” It felt strange to say it out loud, much less to Yennefer. For so many years, any other lover had been temporary, unimportant; he’d left them without a backward glance as soon as he saw her again.

Possibly her thought followed the same tracks: “He had to use _magic_ on _himself_ to get you into bed!” Yen gave him an exasperated glare, as if she was giving him a way out of his troubles and he was just too stupid to use it. As if she expected that she would _always_ be the centre of his emotional world, that there was no way he could have feelings of any _importance_ for anyone else. All his pent-up frustration and fear - for Ciri and Emhyr both - tore out of him in an ugly half-whisper:

“Well, he never had to use magic on _me_ when I was _in it_!”

Yennefer stared at him as if he’d struck her, her eyes black pools of pain and her face drained of all colour. Before she even drew breath to speak, Philippa’s voice drawled from behind them: “What a pity - it does _so_ spice things up, doesn’t it? But we shouldn’t blame him; it’s not his fault he doesn’t have _your_ talents, darling,” and wrapped an arm around Yennefer’s shoulder. “Now, why don’t the two of you go take a nice walk, _without_ any shouting or throwing of things, _especially_ where others can hear you. Or at least, if you _do_ have to shout at each other, please put up a sound barrier first, darling; I’m sure the men have enough gossip for the next fortnight already. Now, off you go.”

Geralt rose sheepishly and nodded at Philippa, offering Yennefer an arm.

“Yeah, you’re right, Philippa. Yennefer, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Yennefer rose without accepting the proffered arm, and turned to Philippa for an embrace. After a few seconds she let go, her back ramrod straight, and turned back to Geralt.

“Very well. Let’s go.”

#

They walked for a while without speaking, both of them needing to calm down from Geralt’s outburst, before he broke the silence.

“Remember when we met? The djinn, with the wishes.”

“I do,” Yennefer replied cautiously.

“Vesemir used to have this saying - ‘have a care what you pray for, for it might be given to you’. I guess that goes for wishes too - always some fucking loophole they can crawl through to bite you in the ass.”

“But I remember your wish. It was -”

“To never love another woman more than you. Yeah. Never have, either. But…”

“Oh”, she said quietly, looking away out into deepening dark.

“Yeah,” he said, morosely kicking at a pebble. “I bet that fucking djinn is laughing his head off somewhere.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am travelling, so next chapter will be late. Have a placeholder instead!  
> The picture is by General_Canoodle.

Sometime during the night, this snippet of an article finds its way to the letter box. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cirilla just spoke to me - they know where the Emperor is!”
> 
> Geralt sat up, flailing for a light.
> 
> “What? Where is he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from travelling; I hope I'll now be able to keep up the schedule of at least one chapter per week until it's finished. Sorry you had to wait for this one, but at least it's one of the longest so far.

When they got back to the tent, Yennefer disappeared inside it to join in the work with twisting the spell on the artefact. Geralt spent most of the rest of the evening with Morvran, making plans, and contingency plans, and fallback contingency plans. Once they had gone through all the angles either of them could think of, Morvran hesitantly asked, “Sir Geralt - I couldn’t help but overhear part of your discussion with the Lady Yennefer. I wholly trust her to help Cirilla, of course, but -“

Gerald rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, and said, “Yeah. She’s got some really good reasons to be pissed off at Emhyr and me both. But I’m fairly sure Philippa and Emhyr have some sort of deal going - even if Yen would gladly see him and me both die horribly in the void between the worlds, I don’t think _she_ would. At least not unless there’s some profit in it for her… and making an enemy of the current or next ruler of Nilfgaard is the opposite of profitable. Sure, in Castle Vraden they can hold off any regular army you could throw at them, but Ciri could take it in an eye blink if she’s got a reason.”

“Truly,” Morvran said with a wry smile, “I believe that causing your death or disappearance would vex her significantly.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “And she can be really fucking scary when she gets angry.”

“I believe the saying you have here in the North is that ‘she comes by it honestly’. From her foster parents as well as her father,” Morvran retorted.

“I have _no_ idea what you are talking about,” Geralt said primly, a half smile tugging the corner of his mouth up.

#

Talking to Morvran had actually made Geralt feel a bit better, surprisingly. Combined with the exhaustion from being awake for two full days, and riding back and forth to Ban Glean, he managed to fall asleep without resorting to satura. The night wasn’t very restful, though; it wasn’t exactly that he minded sleeping alone; he’d been off on various jobs, alone as often as not, time and again since he came back from Skellige… but _this_ bed still smelled of Emhyr, and Geralt had woken himself up several times during the night, reaching for the warm body that wasn’t there. So Morvran, bursting in to wake him before dawn, would have been at risk for at least a _little_ bodily harm, if it weren’t for the words he was shouting.

“Cirilla just spoke to me - they know where the Emperor is!”

Geralt sat up, flailing for a light.

“What? Where is he?”

“He’s safe and well, in that same world, some ten days of travel from Ciri’s city.”

Once Geralt got up and they gathered around the xenogloss, Ciri of course, wanted to go off to fetch Emhyr on her own. “It’s not _that_ far; I could hire guards here, perhaps ask some of my friends in the Watch. We’d be back here in Ankh-Morpork in three weeks, then we can both use the portal…”

In the end, the only thing that convinced her was the incontrovertible fact that she was risking not only Emhyr’s position as Emperor, but also Morvran’s and her own as his successors. “If the two of you suddenly disappear, and Morvran takes over, without so much as a note from Emhyr - that’ll pretty much be all the excuse Morvran’s enemies need to start a civil war, and if you’re not there, they’ll get about half of Emhyr’s supporters to come along for the ride,” Geralt told her. “But if you come back, and I go after him - that’s easy to spin: Emhyr is off on a nice little vacation with me, after having conquered the whole world, and he’s giving the two of you a chance to prove yourself while he’s away.”

“But what if you can’t get here? If Yennefer isn’t able to modify the spell? What if I’m the only person from our world who _can_ go after him?” she shot back.

“Then Vetinari will send him a guard; he won’t be travelling alone in any case, but the guard doesn’t need to be _you_. And if we _do_ decide - all of us - that you should go, you can at least show yourself publicly first, getting a few witnesses,” Geralt retorted.

“Indeed,” Morvran concurred. “That will also let us put about a better story, that will garner you greater support - ‘the brave Crown Princess going to save the Emperor’ will give you yet greater public acclaim, unlike  ‘Prince consort seizes power immediately after the Emperor and the Crown Princess mysteriously disappear’. We do not want to watch your father’s work begin to crumble in his absence, and yours.” Vetinari strongly seconded their argument, and Ciri finally gave in.

By then, it was light in the camp, and nearing noon in Ankh-Morpork. After a hasty breakfast, they were joined by the sorceresses in the outer partition of Emhyr’s tent. Geralt had shoved Emhyr’s travel desk aside to clear a space, and placed the ribbon from the spice bag in the middle. Ciri called through the xenogloss: “Ready? Here we go!”, and then a glowing shape formed right above the ribbon, growing quickly into a flash in a colour Geralt had never seen and couldn’t really describe. When he managed to open his eyes again, a goat was standing in the middle of the tent. Its horns were adorned with bells tied on with ribbons.

“Ciri? What the fuck?” Geralt yelled into the xenogloss.

“Well, of course we needed to _test_ it first,” Ciri’s voice replied. “Is the goat well? How many bells does it have on? Just so we can be sure nothing got lost in transit. There should be seven. Or maybe eight.” Her voice _sounded_ innocent enough, but Morvran didn’t seem like he bought that any more than Geralt did, especially given how amazingly difficult it proved to be for two men to catch one goat in an enclosed space. None of the sorceresses was of any help, all of them being too busy laughing until they cried and - in Yennefer’s case - fell over, when the goat butted Geralt in the… well, in the butt. On the other hand, it managed to eat one of his doublets, so it wasn’t _all_ bad.

Once the goat had finally been caught, and put out of the tent, and Ciri and the sorceresses had finished laughing their heads off, the portal formed again, and Ciri appeared in the middle of the tent.

#

“So what is this Lancre place like?” Geralt asked into the xenogloss.

“It is a small country, up in the Ramtop mountains,” Vetinari’s deep voice - unnervingly like Emhyr’s - answered. “The area is peaceful  and quite civilised; they are on the clacks, and there’s a regular stagecoach service. Emhyr is staying with king Verence and Queen Magrat. The Queen is an accomplished witch and herbalist, as Sir Geralt knows.”

Yennefer threw an inquiring glance at Geralt, who pressed his lips together and looked away. He could have done perfectly well without her getting reminded of the misethere, _again_.

Ciri turned to Yennefer: “Mother, how hard will it be to change the spell so it will send Geralt there?”

“Not _very_ hard. It would be quicker if we had some of the Emperor's blood, but I don’t suppose you’ve got any lying around, do you?”

“Actually…” Geralt rifled through his pack and found his Voice of the Empire; Emhyr had given him a new one, when he’d come back from Skellige. “Can you use this? One of the seals is made with his blood.”

Yennefer and Philippa looked at each other. Philippa said, “Yes, that should make things easier… the spell that creates it makes you, magically speaking, an extension of the Emperor. Who made it? Is he here?”

Within a few seconds, Wolreg and the sorceresses were deep into a technical discussion. Ciri, Morvran and Geralt went to sit outside the tent, making sure that reports of her presence would spread as fast as possible.

Ciri reached out and put one hand on top of Geralt’s twisting, clenching hands. “He really is safe, there. A lot safer than he’d be anywhere in _this_ world, anyway.”

“So they’ll wait at least half a minute before they attack. Good to know,” he responded, catching her hand and squeezing it a little. “I’ll be a lot happier when I actually _see_ him.”

“What do you propose we do for communications?” Morvran asked. “I presume you cannot bring the letter box?”

“No, he can’t,” Ciri agreed. “The wizards were clear on that; the portal generator needs the letter boxes, combined with an object that has passed through them, to direct the portal. I’ll ask Havelock to return the xenogloss now, so Geralt can take it.”

Geralt nodded. “If we’d need to get a message to Vetinari, the clacks network will only take a couple of hours. It’s not as if he’d be able to actually _do_ anything from ten day’s travel away, anyway.”

“ _I_ would be a lot happier if we could actually _test_ the new spell before we try it on you,” Ciri said. “Sending you through an untested portal…”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled with that,” Geralt said, “but Yen says there’s no way. It’s going to be tricky enough to make the thing think I’m Emhyr; trying to mess it around with something or someone else is asking for even more trouble.”

Ciri nodded, but looked unconvinced.

“Look,” Geralt continued, “I know this isn’t certain. There’s a risk I’ll end up in some other place on that world, or in the castle in Roggeven, or on another world, or someplace else that we haven’t thought of yet. But what’s the alternative - I hang around here and just _hope_ nothing goes wrong? Just think of the damn nobles - at least half of them already think I’m in it for the money and power, they’re going to be _certain_ you and I got rid of him together to put you on the throne. They’ll be watching to see how long it takes us to get rid of Morvran next.”

“I wish it were otherwise, but I find you have an accurate grasp of the political situation,” Morvran agreed. “Even had you no other incentive, that alone should suffice for those who care for the Empire as well as the Emperor to strongly recommend your going after him rather than remaining here.”

“Other incentive?” Ciri asked.

“Sir Geralt is not well known for remaining in safety while someone for whom he cares may be in danger,” Morvran said, gently.

“I’m going to go check on the spellwork,” Geralt said, rising abruptly. Philippa and Yennefer chased him back out of the tent in short order, but at least the interruption had been long enough for Morvran and Ciri to stop trying to talk about his _feelings_ , so that was all right.

“I’ve tried once, since I got back… whatever it is that blocked me, it’s about _me_ , not about what world I’m in,” Ciri was saying, her face drawn and unhappy, as he sat back down.

“When did you last create a portal?” Morvran asked.

“Five months ago, when we fought at Tretogor,” she replied.

“So, whatever is doing this to you - it could have happened at any time since?” Geralt said.

“Yes, or it could have been the result of whatever the spell was on that statuette,” Ciri said. “But the main point is that if you get sent to somewhere entirely different, there’ll be no way for me to go after you. Even if we could get hold of Avallac’h, there’s no saying if he’ll be able to figure out why my powers don’t work, _or_ that he’d be able to find a portal to wherever you’d end up. There’s a chance you’d end up lost on some strange world, and none of us would be able to find you. I’m not sure…”

“ _I_ am,” Geralt retorted. “That thing sent Emhyr and you to the same world - no reason why it should suddenly start changing destinations on us. Yen said it latched on to the portal in the letter box, and that’s still the only portal spell in the area, so it’s not really _that_ much of a risk. I might end up in some other part of that world, but if it’s safe enough for Emhyr on his own, it’s definitely safe enough for _me_.”

Geralt already knew a lot about Vetinari’s world, from his letters, so he didn’t really need Ciri’s observations as a tactical necessity, but he still wanted to wring every last detail from her. Her description of being shown around lady Sybil’s swamp dragon project would have had him in stitches, even without Morvran hamming it up with an exaggerated look of offended surprise at her description - “a bit like the first time Morvran showed me the stables, only with more fire”. He highly approved of Vetinari’s choice in putting the non-human - and therefore strongest and fastest - watchwomen as Ciri’s personal guard; Ciri _had_ caught on to Humpeding’s being a vampire, though she’d missed Captain Angua being a werewolf: not really surprising, the werewolves on Discworld being far more human-like than the bestial and savage ones in their own world.

The talk had more or less petered out, when one of the apprentice sorceresses came out from the tent.

“Sir Geralt? They are ready for you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so late; I ran into a big wall built from writer's blocks. I managed to find a way around it, but it took so long that my beta reader didn't have a chance to go through it. Any errors are on me, and if you find them, please drop a comment!

The actual transfer was a bit of an anticlimax, when it finally happened. The sorceresses had taken some of Geralt’s blood, and made him hold his Voice of the Empire, and drawn a circle around him and the artefact and the message box, and chanted, and told him to touch the statuette, and just as he was about to inform them that he didn’t like portals, he was displaced before he even got the words out. When he checked in with Ciri, she confirmed that his transfer had been instantaneous.

Looking around, he found himself in a rushy valley. Nearby, there was a small rise with a circle of stones on it, each stone about the height and width of a man. He walked a bit closer to the stones, but stopped as he felt the deep hum of power - not from the stones themselves, but from the area inside them. The breeze that swept through the valley seemed to touch the grass within the circle a few seconds later than it ought to, and Geralt saw a bird swerve in its flight, to avoid entering the air above it. He sympathised; whatever was within those stones, he wasn’t going near it without a _really_ fat contract.

Turning his back on the stone circle, he saw that the bracken nearby had been trampled, in a clear line that started only a few metres from his own landing place. The track was a couple of days old, but it hadn’t rained, and the dry broken leaves hadn’t had time to get covered by new growth: easy to follow. The trampled track led him to a small path, where he found a silver thread in a pine tree a little way down the path. He brought it to his nose: it didn’t hold any smell, other than that of the surrounding forest, but it looked like the thread used in the embroidered salamander on Emhyr’s cloak. It seemed to have been carefully and deliberately placed among the needles, exactly at his eye height: as clear a sign as he could expect.

Once the path brought him to a larger road, he could see the town and its large looming castle in the distance, and needed no further signs to know which way to go. He set out at a good pace; the afternoon sun was bright, the air crisp with a promise of the winter to come, and the land around him was alive with creatures going about their business - birds, deer, a swarm of of bees that circled him before heading purposefully away on their business, a hare that kept pace with him for a while, only veering away when he reached the town and its looming castle.

#

The footman - wearing an oversized wig and ill-fitting livery that would have had Emhyr’s chamberlain in tears - showed him to the castle library, where Emhyr was standing looking out at the mountainside through a large window, the afternoon sun limning his hair and the line of his jaw with gold. As they entered, he turned around and dismissed the footman with a “Thank you, Shawn”, without taking his eyes off Geralt. Geralt made a bow, the way Mererid had once been at such pains to teach him, and was rewarded with one of Emhyr’s rare laughs. As soon as he rose up from the bow, he found himself grabbed and pulled into a kiss, soft and sweet and not lasting nearly long enough before Emhyr drew back.

“Nice seeing you, too, “ Geralt said. “Enjoying your stay?”

“Since I received Havelock’s message that you were on your way, yes,” Emhyr answered. “I assume you have messages from Cirilla?”

“Yeah. Got a letter from Havelock, too. He wanted you to read it before talking to Ciri,” Geralt said. “Yen got us a way to talk to Ciri directly,” he added, giving Emhyr the letter.

Emhyr opened it, scanned the contents and handed it back to Geralt to read for himself. After the recapitulation of Ciri’s visit to Ankh-Morpork, from Vetinari’s point of view, the interesting part of the message read:

  


_Should you find it possible and desirable to let Cirilla and her husband remain as regents for a little longer, I wonder if you might see your way to taking a small detour on the way to Ankh-Morpork. As you know, the war between Zlobenia and Borogravia ended in a peace agreement some time ago. However, the peace has been less than stable; Prince Heinrich of Zlobenia still claims rights to the throne of Borogravia, while the residents of that country remain disinclined to oblige him. I believe that a visit by a friend of Ankh-Morpork to our embassies in the region, perhaps as part of a tour of Uberwald, might prove a useful counterpoint to the increasingly outspoken demands for upheaval._

_Naturally, your own interests must come first, and if you consider it unwise to delay your return, I shall do my best to assist you with all speed. However, I think that this might be an appropriate time to allow the Empire to see Cirilla and Morvran as leaders in their own right, especially if knowledge of the existence and use of the xenogloss be kept private._

_In either case, I look forward to seeing you in Ankh-Morpork, and hope that you and Geralt will be able to spend at least a day or two here, before going back to your own world. I look forward to hearing your thoughts; Cirilla has kindly offered to relay any message that would be inappropriate for the clacks system._

  


“He wants us to go to _Uberwald_?” Geralt asked.

“Apparently so,” Emhyr said. “He does have a point; having Cirilla and Morvran as regents will be a useful test.”

“For them, or for whatever faction is causing the most trouble right now?”

Emhyr looked at him with a faint smile, the way he did when Geralt didn’t make the right shah move quickly enough.

“Never mind. All of those, and about half a dozen more that I haven’t thought of, of course,” Geralt said. “So we’re going?”

“Do _you_ want to go? Or would you prefer to return home, to the palace at Novigrad or Vizima, as soon as possible?” Emhyr asked.

“Well, the plumbing is probably a _lot_ better at home…” Geralt said, with a leer. Emhyr gave him a flat look.

“Yeah, all right. I wouldn’t mind staying away from palace life for a bit longer. Especially someplace that’s not…”

“Not full of people who wish to kill you, use you or curry favour from you?” Emhyr said, dryly.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” Geralt agreed, with a wry smile.

“I confess to finding the experience quite liberating, myself,” Emhyr said. “And if Cirilla and Morvran should prove unable to meet the challenge of ruling the Empire for an extra week or two, I would prefer to know it as soon as possible,” he added. 

“Fine. But _you_ get to tell Ciri,” Geralt said, digging out the xenogloss and handing it to Emhyr.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, and very late. My vacation is over, I'm back at work, and unfortunately work actually takes a lot of my time - and being well enough to be able to ride my horse again takes a lot of what time is left. 
> 
> But I have the outline clear and will finish the story, only it's going to take longer than I hoped.

Geralt had spent a more time than he wanted to remember around royalty, and usually made himself at home quickly: mostly by simply ignoring whatever rules of conduct he found too irritating, and just getting on with whatever he was there to do. Lancre Castle was a new experience, though. To start with, the castle was a lot larger than the town and surrounding farmland would seem to warrant, but there was very little staff; a cook, a maid and the footman who’d shown Geralt in seemed to be all there was. In all, it was a lot more like the home of some minor baron than a royal castle, even of the minor kingdoms at home, with some added bits of court ceremony that seemed at odds with the rest of the quiet life here.

Havelock’s letters had told them that King Verence hadn’t been raised to rule. There had been an usurper who’d murdered the legitimate king; the witches of Lancre had assisted in ousting the usurper, only to find that the legitimate heir refused to take the crown. Verence, who had been the usurper’s Fool, was found to be the illegitimate half brother of the heir, and was raised to the throne. He married Magrat, one of the local witches - now away on some errand related to her work - and was a conscientious ruler, learning as fast as he could, though lacking a personal mentor he got most of his ideas out of books, and was having some difficulty applying his theory to the practical nature of his subjects. He spent a large part of the dinner conversation lamenting that the farmers were unwilling to try new strains of grains, and new ways of working the land, and asking Emhyr for advice on how to make them change their minds. Emhyr was sympathetic but not helpful: clearly, his customary solution of conquering the nearest kingdom wasn't an option here, and he seemed disinclined to suggest any other means of persuasion.

When Verence yet again complained of some farmer who wouldn't use the new seed grain Verence had ordered, Geralt got tired of him.

“How about asking them? Instead of telling them, I mean,” Geralt said. Emhyr looked at him with faint smile. Verence was less subtle, staring at him slack jawed and surprised, before he caught himself and composed himself. 

“A king does not _ask_ his subjects to obey,” the King said severely.

“Thought you wanted to change things a bit? Letting the people have a say in their rule and all that?” Geralt replied, with the friendly and open smile he used when he wanted to put someone off guard: the one Yennefer said made him look like an idiot. “Right now, you're basically telling every farmer you've got that they've been doing it wrong for their whole lives. Not the best way to make them listen to you.”

“I don't think that is what we have been saying,” Verence replied stiffly.

“Might not have been what you were _saying_ ,” Geralt told him, “but I'm fairly sure it's what they’ve been _hearing_. You need to change that if you want them to listen. Like I said, try asking them for help instead.”

Verence leaned forward, looking at him with real interest now.

“Ask them for help? How do you mean, sir Geralt?”

Geralt shrugged. “Ask them to help you out testing whatever new idea you've got. Go to one of the farmers, say you're not sure about the new strain of rye or whatever, but you think that if anyone can make it work, _they_ can. Maybe ask a more than one of them, give a prize to whoever gets the best result,” he added.

“Don't you think they’ll lose respect for a King who goes begging for favours?”

“Respect goes both ways or neither.  This way you’ll show that _you_ respect _them._ Plus once they've done you a favour, they'll start supporting you,” Geralt told him. 

“That sounds unlikely,” Verence frowned. “One would expect support from gratitude rather than the opposite.”

“Common mistake. You help them, they'll feel indebted. They help you, they feel generous. Most people feel better about being generous than indebted.”

“Would you agree with him?” Verence asked Emhyr, who’d leaned back to let the two of them argue.

“I would,” Emhyr replied, without taking his eyes off Geralt. “Geralt has a better understanding of human minds than he likes to admit.”

Geralt drew in a breath to object, but found himself caught in Emhyr’s gaze, unable to remember what he’d been about to say. 

“I shall certainly take your words under advisement,” Verence told Geralt. Then he looked from Emhyr to Geralt and back again, coughed slightly and said “I am sure you must be tired after your journey. Pray do not hesitate to retire,” rising and leaving them alone.

#

Their room was comfortable enough, though a bit chilly; not surprising in the mountains. But there was a fire laid, and the windows had heavy curtains to keep out the drafts, and the bed, when Emhyr pushed him down on it, was soft, sheets smelling of dried flowers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! Work has unfortunately affected my writing, but it appears that I'll be switching to a workplace that I can take the train to, instead of driving, which will give me about an hour's extra writing time per day - sorely needed, as I write rather slowly.
> 
> Also, writing Granny Weatherwax is about the hardest thing I've done so far.
> 
> And, as always, thanks to General Canoodle for beta'ing!

Geralt turned over, still more than half asleep, and pulled Emhyr closer, snuggling deeper down under the cover.

“I would have thought that, should you wish to be rid of me, you might more easily have simply refrained from coming after me, instead of crushing the air out of my lungs,” Emhyr said sleepily.

“Just making sure you don't go off finding some pretty thing to grab and get transferred to some other world again,” Geralt said as sourly as he could manage, which wasn't very. “I really don't like going through portals.”

“Mm,” Emhyr said, twisting around in his arms, throwing a leg over Geralt’s hip and running his fingers through his hair. “I seem to recall you mentioning that on some previous occasions. I hope your transfer to this world was not too onerous.”

“Not too bad,” Geralt murmured, letting his hands wander across back and thigh, mouthing at the place where Emhyr’s neck met his shoulder, breathing in the musky scent of arousal.

“I am glad to hear it,” Emhyr said. “I shall be careful to only grip things with which I am already familiar,” he added, pushing Geralt down on his back and taking a firm hold of his cock.

“Yeah? _Good_ idea,” Geralt gasped. “Keep doing that.”

#

When they finally made their way down from their room, the Queen had returned from whatever errand she’d been on, and after lunch she suggested that Geralt walk with her to town. Emhyr had ensconced himself in the library with several books on Uberwald, as well as the documents Geralt had brought from Vetinari. He gave Magrat a thoughtful look, but had no objections to make.

Lancre Town was small: a few streets with houses clustered below the castle, an inn and a few shops on the main street. It looked prosperous: some houses looked new, some of the old ones had fresh paint, gardens were neat and and many of them had flowers as well as vegetables.

Magrat brought him to a nice, well-kept house, bracketed by two cottages. As a frazzled young woman opened the door, Geralt heard the excited voice of Shawn, the footman from the castle, coming from the inside:

“Mum, did you see that new one, with the white hair, that fighter one, as come in yesterday?”

“Haven't met him yet, but Magrat’ll be bringing him down in a while,” a female voice answered.

“Mum, I think I’m going to ask him to do it with me!”

Geralt froze in the entrance hall. That was really _not_ the vibe he'd gotten off the kid when he'd been shown in last night… He snuck a glance at Magrat, who was only barely keeping from giggling out loud.

“Well, Shawn, I can’t say I hadn’t been wondering when you'd get around to that, only…” the woman began to answer, but was immediately interrupted by Shawn.

“Mum, he looks like he’s really good at it! Just the way he walks, you can tell! I’ve never seen anyone move like that!”

Geralt’s eyebrows were busy climbing up into his hairline, and he didn’t dare look at Magrat. He could hear little spurts of laughter escaping from her, like steam from a kettle about to boil.

“I’m sure he does, but…”

“He’s got to be good, else that Emhyr wouldn’t keep him, right? _He_ doesn't look like he’d keep someone around as doesn’t do the job properly.”

Apparently the kid had _some_ judgement when it came to people: that was a fair assessment of Emhyr, he had to admit. Apparently his mother agreed to:

“You’re probably right about that, but…”

“You don't think that Mr Emhyr would mind, do you? He just sits in the library the whole day anyway, he could do without him for an hour or two, he wouldn't mind that, would he?”

“Well, that might be so, but…”

“I think it'd be great to have someone who really _knows_ what to do to teach me!”

“Well, yes, it’s usually a good idea if at least one of you does - it’s just that…”

“And he’s got _two_! I saw them last night! He didn’t actually take them out and show me, but he’s got _two_! Two _big_ ones!”

There were a few seconds of silence from the room, while Geralt closed his eyes and slowly shook his head, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

“Shawn Ogg. _What are you talking about?_ ”

“His swords! He’s got two of them!”

“Yeah, but I usually fight with just one at a time,” Geralt interrupted, stepping into the room. “Sure, I’d be happy to train with you a bit, Shawn. Tomorrow, maybe?”

#

Shawn’s mother, Mrs Ogg, was old enough to have hair as white as Geralt, and a face wrinkly and sweet as a winter apple, though Geralt wasn't fool enough to think that sweetness was all there was. She got Geralt seated and holding a cup of tea in short order, and packed Shawn off back to the castle once he and Geralt had agreed to do a bit of training the next day. Before Geralt had time to do more than taste the hot tea, the door opened again.

“Blessings be on this house,” a tall, stern faced woman said, in a tone that indicated that she’d also be more than happy to remove any blessings if she saw a need to. Geralt recognised her from Vetinari’s letters: Mistress Weatherwax, who together with Mrs Ogg and Queen Magrat had created the misethere cure. Though Vetinari hadn’t said it outright, Geralt had got the very strong impression that she was a person even _he_ would be careful not to cross unless necessary… and if that ever happened, Vetinari wasn't certain he’d win.

“Greetings,” Geralt said, rising to give her a bow. She nodded and sat down in a straight backed chair.

“Well, look at that,” Mrs Ogg said brightly. “Pretty, _and_ nice manners, too. I can see how his young man was taken with him.”

“Still no call to go using magic and curses all over the place,” Mistress Weatherwax sniffed. “I can’t be having with that.”

“Well, right, _I_ never needed that. An off-the-shoulder dress usually did the trick,” Mrs Ogg said, twinkling her eyes at Geralt.

“Right off the shoulder and down on the grass, as I recall,” Mistress Weatherwax responded mechanically, more focused on glaring at Geralt than on the conversation. “Planning to stay long, are you?”

Geralt swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. This suddenly felt eerily like confronting Emhyr, that time when he’d told him he would look for Ciri only for her own sake, not for all the gold Emhyr could offer, except then he’d brought enough righteous anger to the show to not felt quite so outclassed.

“No,” he answered meekly. “We’ll be leaving in a few days. Just waiting for the coach to get here to pick us up.” She nodded curtly at him, seeming to relax minutely.

He spent the rest of the afternoon fielding a barrage of questions: about his world, about Emhyr and Cirilla and his whole life, about magic and sorceresses and, of course, about the misethere episode.

“You've not spread the cure about, have you?” the old witch demanded.

“Not a chance,” he replied. “The sorceresses that were around at the time know, of course, and I’ve told a couple of witchers in case they run into a misethere contract. None of them is stupid enough to noise it about.”

“Why not?” Magrat asked, genuinely confused. “Wouldn't it be good to make sure people can get rid of a curse like that?”

“You knows why,” Mistress Weatherwax said, looking at Geralt. “You tell her.”

Geralt frowned: there were things about ordinary human nature that he really wished he’d never needed to learn, and pretty much all of them were from ‘ordinary humans’, not from monsters or even emperors. Emhyr wasn’t exactly a _good_ person, but there were things that were _way_ beyond the line for him… Like using misethere on someone _else_ , for instance.

“Look,” he said. “There’ve always been two reasons for people not to use misethere. One is it’s _really_ expensive - most people can’t afford the ingredients, much less find someone that’s able and willing to make the stuff, and then _they_ wouldn't work for cheap either. But the _second_ reason is that there's no way to hide when you've used it. It’s kind of hard to curse someone discreetly when the curse leads to them following you around and taking their clothes off. But with a cure readily available, that last point goes out the window. You could dose someone, have ‘fun’ a couple of hours, then cure them, and there’d be no trace.”

“But that is _horrible!_ ” Magrat burst out, eyes big and round in a pale face.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he agreed.

“Does… does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

“Misethere? Not really - like I said, it’s expensive and difficult to get hold of. Plus, Emhyr _really_ doesn’t like it when you curse people - anyone caught with it isn’t going to like the consequences. So not too many people would bother unless there’s something more at stake than just getting someone into bed - if that’s all they want, using force is a lot easier. Or alcohol,” he concluded drily.

“Right,” Mistress Weatherwax nodded grimly. “Can’t say as there aren’t some as would use it here, neither.”

“So what happens here, when someone does something like that?” Geralt asked. He was fairly certain Verence wouldn’t approve any more than Emhyr did, but he also wasn’t sure at how good he’d be at stopping it.

Mistress Weatherwax looked at him with a hard smile.

“That’d be us. _We_ happen,” Mistress Weatherwax and Mrs Ogg spoke as one. Magrat nodded, still looking a bit shaky. Geralt looked from one to the other, suddenly feeling _very_ strongly that he might actually prefer a session with the imperial torturers rather than having those three dealing out their justice.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm _damn_ sure it’s not possible to be a good man and a good emperor of Nilfgaard. Not for very long, anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to General_Canoodle for beta!

Mrs Ogg steered the conversation off into asking Geralt about his witcher training and upbringing, giving Magrat some time to collect herself. After a while, she broke back in:

“I understand you were giving the King some advice yesterday,” she said.

“Did he, now?” Mistress Weatherwax asked mildly, but with her glare turned back up a few notches.

“Yeah,” Geralt answered warily. “He had some ideas, I tried to help. Hope it was useful.”

“Yes, I think so. It is… difficult for him. He just wants to make things better, but the people won’t listen,” Magrat said.

“He seems like a good guy,” Geralt agreed.

“Why was it you, not your…” she gestured uncertainly, blushing.

“Why wasn’t it Emhyr who talked to him?” Geralt asked. “What with you giving us a place to stay and all, not to mention you and your friends giving him the misethere cure?”

“Yes,” the Queen said.

“He didn’t say, but I can guess. Like I said, your husband is a good guy. Emhyr _isn’t_. The solutions he'd use aren’t the kind of thing your husband wants. Whatever advice he’d think of would be worse than useless - it’d be helpful in the wrong way.”

“Good,” Mistress Weatherwax nodded. “Man has got _some_ sense.”

“Sir Geralt,” Magrat said, looking searchingly at him. “Would you say that your… that _Emhyr_ is a good ruler?

He thought for a few seconds. “I’d say at least he’s really effective. At the heart of it, he tries to make people safe and fed and free to live as they choose, mostly. Not just humans - elves, dwarves, whatever. So yeah, I think he’s a good ruler, on the whole. Doesn't mean he’s a _nice_ person, though,” he added.

“I see. A good ruler, but not a good man?” Magrat asked.

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that… It’s not that he’s a _bad_ man, exactly - pretty much everything he does is for the empire, to make it what he thinks it should be, and to be able to pass it on to Ciri. He’s not often selfish, but he’s willing to sacrifice almost anything and anyone, including himself, for that. Hard to do that and still be a good person.”

“I see,” she said again. “Do you think it’s at all possible to be both a good man _and_ a good ruler?”

He paused for thought again.

“Sure, in some places. But I'm _damn_ sure it’s not possible to be a good man and a good emperor of Nilfgaard. Not for very long, anyway.” He shrugged. “Not like Verence can, here.”

“What’s the difference, then?” Mrs Ogg asked, head tilted to one side, eyes twinkling at him.

“You said it yourselves,” Geralt answered. “ _You_ are. The King can be good, keep to the rules. When that’s not enough? _You_ happen.”

“And don’t you go forgetting it, either,” Mistress Weatherwax said with a thin, satisfied smile. “Gytha, you make sure he gets back to his young man,” she added, rising and herding Magrat towards the door.

Geralt looked out the window, seeing the sun well on the way down to the horizon, and offered, “I’d be happy to walk the Queen -“

“I think Mrs Ogg has some things she wants to talk with you about,” Magrat said. Mrs Ogg nodded, smiling sweetly at Geralt.

“Brandy?” she asked. “Made it myself.”

#

Turned out what she wanted to talk about was her son, Shawn. Geralt had noticed for himself that the lad was a bit more naive than most men his age, and he was already planning on going easy on him in training - give him enough tips to make him feel good about what he learned, but not enough that he’d hurt himself trying to keep up.

Once that was settled, it seemed what she mainly wanted was someone to drink with. Geralt was happy to oblige; the contents of the bottle didn’t _taste_ like anything he’d call brandy, but it burned nicely on the way down his throat, and after the past few days, he felt strongly that an evening of getting thoroughly drunk was precisely what he needed. And Mrs Ogg - “Call me Nanny,” she’d said, sometime half through the first bottle - was surprisingly good company. It felt almost like drinking with Zoltan, or Lambert when he wasn’t trying to be funny, plus she not only managed to keep pace with his witcher metabolism, but appeared genuinely surprised at _his_ keeping up with _her._

They traded stories, funny and otherwise, back and forth. Nanny told him how she’d transformed her cat - an evil-looking one-eyed monstrosity, eyes as yellow as Geralt’s, glaring malevolently at him from Nanny’s lap - into a human. Geralt told her about the time he and Eskel, children at Kaer Morhen, had spent a day capturing a giant bumblebee, and how Vesemir had made them let it go and then sent them off to capture it _again_ just to teach them a lesson. Three times.

They ran out of brandy in short order, and Nanny brought out a bottle of something she called scumble - “Made from apples”, she said. “Well, _mainly_ apples.” It actually tasted worse than the dwarves spirits Zoltan kept around, and was a lot stronger, too. Half way through _that_ bottle, Nanny took down an an instrument Geralt had never seen before: she called it a banjo, and it looked a little like a lute that someone had pounded flat, which was also how it sounded. Dandelion had once told him how he’d worked hard to learn to sing and play two different tunes at the same time, but to Nanny Ogg, that skill seemed innate, and probably involuntary and unavoidable, too.

Nanny started by singing one of her favourite tunes, “A Wizards Staff has a Knob on the End”, which Geralt planned on singing for Wolreg at some point when he was being extra irritating. Geralt returned the favour by giving her some of Dandelion’s raunchier lyrics, including the only half-finished “Ballad of the Two Tits” that he’d started writing about Yennefer a number of years back, when they’d all been following a dragon. He’d claimed that his muse had abandoned him mid-way, which was apparently code for Yennefer having threatened that if he ever finished it or sang any part of it in public, she’d turn him into something small. And squishy. And dead.

Except then Nanny asked about Yennefer, and he ended up trying to explain their tangled history, all the way from the djinn and through breakups and reconciliations, until the last scene in Vizima, two years ago.

“Well,” Nanny said comfortably, “no reason to have just _one_ love of your life. Waste of life, that’d be.” She topped up both their glasses, and added “Mind you, having more than one at a time can get a bit tricky, depending.”

“Yeah, I kind of noticed that,” Geralt said, his mouth twisted in a bitter half-smile.

Nanny picked up the banjo again, "to cheer him up", she said. The tune was catchy, and the first three lines were fine, but then she got to the fourth…

_Bestiality sure is a fun thing to do_  
_But I have to say this as a warning to you:_  
_With almost all animals, you can have ball_  
_But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all._

The sip of scumble Geralt had just taken sprayed all over the table. A few drops hit a teaspoon, which started smoking and corroding.

“I know for a _fact_ that’s not true,” he choked out, as Nanny glared at the stained table and the dissolving spoon.

#

Once Geralt explained what the name Emhyr sounded like in the Elder Speech, and how the usurper had used that against him in the curse - turning him into a humanoid with spiky hedgehog skin - Nanny insisted on teaching him _all_ the verses to the Hedgehog Song.

When he’d gotten most of it word perfect, she offered him a lift back up to the castle - not that it was actually very far, but after a couple of hours of heavy drinking, he appreciated the thought of letting a horse do the work for him. Except that when they stepped outside, she didn’t go to the stable - instead she felt under the eaves of the house, and pulled down a broomstick. Geralt felt _deeply_ sceptical.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Nanny told him. “There’s them as says only women can ride it, but _that_ ain’t true. Come on now, I knows you ain’t afraid of getting up on a bit of stiff wood,” she leered unrepentantly.

Geralt sighed and climbed up behind her. It took Nanny a few tries to get it started, and then they were off, in a decidedly erratic manner and barely high enough for Geralt’s feet to clear the ground. He appreciated that fact when Nanny managed to hiccup enough that only his witcher reflexes stopped him from falling off - but since they weren’t enough to keep also _Nanny_ on, and the broomstick needed her magic to keep in the air, he was dumped on the ground anyway. Several times.

They ended up walking the last bit to the castle, singing the Hedgehog Song as they went, with Geralt making a counterpoint of “I know for a fact that’s not true” after every verse. He decided he’d make Dandelion add some verses, if only he could figure out a way to keep Emhyr from beheading him. 

Nanny brought him in through the kitchen entrance, making him douse his head under the scullery pump before letting him go up the stairs: to make sure he didn’t get kicked out of the bed, she said.

“Not that he seems likely to, after going through all that trouble to get you _in_ it,” she said. “But remember what I always says: ‘Stand before your god, bow before your king, kneel before your man’. “ She looked at Geralt. “Or behind him, as the case may be. Have a good night,” she grinned and went off back to her cottage, leaving him spluttering at the foot of the enormous staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The L-Space web page](http://www.lspace.org/main.html) has a lot of interesting stuff about the Discworld, including the song lyrics to both [A Wizard's Staff Has a Knob on the End](http://www.lspace.org/fandom/songs/wizards-staff.html) and [the Hedgehog Song](http://www.lspace.org/fandom/songs/hedgehog-song.html). In fact, there's [more than one version of both](http://www.lspace.org/fandom/songs/index.html).
> 
> And while "Emhyr" means "ruler" in Welsh, which is probably where it came from, it's canon that it sounds like "emir" which is Elder Speech for "hedgehog".
> 
> I did not start this fic _only_ to get that joke in. Not _only_.


	13. Chapter 13

Emhyr didn’t throw him out of bed, but he did give Geralt a look of lofty amusement as he half stumbled into their room.

“I take it you had an enjoyable evening,” he said.

“Yeah, mostly,” Geralt said, sitting down heavily to pull off his boots. “Guess they wanted to make sure you weren't here to conquer the place or anything.”

“Mm. They need not worry; I have neither reason nor inclination to do so. Also, I confess that there are some rulers I would avoid confronting unless absolutely necessary,” Emhyr said.

“Huh? Don’t tell me you couldn't get around Verence in about two seconds flat, if you wanted to,” Geralt replied.

“I was not talking about Verence,” Emhyr said. Geralt shivered, remembering a pair of ice blue eyes under a pointy hat.

“Yeah. Guess I see what you mean,” he said. “You’re damn lucky Yen and Philippa haven’t had a chance to take lessons from _her_ , or you wouldn't have any empire left.”

“I am well aware of that,” Emhyr replied.

“I promised to do some training with Shawn tomorrow,” Geralt said, taking off his damp shirt and hanging it to dry on a chair by the fire.

“Mm,” Emhyr said, putting his heavy book aside and looking at him. “I believe I shall join you.”

Geralt stopped and stared at him. Emhyr returned the look with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you surprised that I wish to maintain my exercise regimen as far as is possible under these circumstances? While the population of this world does not consist wholly of people with grudges against the emperor of Nilfgaard, there is no lack of grudges against Ankh-Morpork, whose representatives we shall be. I should prefer to not carry my sword merely as decoration.”

Geralt couldn’t find any fault with that: not that he was planning on letting anyone or anything get close enough to Emhyr to hurt him, but he _had_ been considering the risks of him being the only one between Emhyr and the rest of the world.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, crawling into bed.

#

When they got down to the small courtyard the next morning, there was already a small audience: the King and Queen had showed up, and Nanny Ogg ambled in and joined them just as Geralt was putting Shawn and Emhyr through the first warm-up exercises. Geralt enjoyed teaching, though Shawn had far less natural talent than Ciri, and he’d read far too many books giving him lots of ideas of how he _should_ fight - most of them wrong, contradictory or both. Since there was nothing Geralt could do to fix _that_ in one day, he focused on balance and stance, trying to get the kid to get comfortable in his own body, and Shawn ended up at least managing to hit the training dummy without damaging himself on the backswing.

He and Emhyr finished the lesson with a short sparring session: nothing like he would have been able to do with Ciri, but far beyond anything Shawn or the rest of them had ever seen. He kept the pace slightly harder than Emhyr seemed to want, but Emhyr followed his lead, determined not to falter.  Geralt ended up bringing them together, Emhyr’s sword at his neck and his own dagger at Emhyr’s heart, making the bout a draw just as he’d planned. Nanny Ogg’s loud snicker rather spoiled the moment, though.

#

After the bath - Geralt had helped carry the tubs and water, and heated it with Igni, garnering him a still more worshipful look from Shawn - Emhyr brought out the xenogloss, preparing for Ciri to check in with them again. Before opening it, he looked at Geralt:

“Have you changed your mind? Would you prefer to return to the comforts of the palace at once, instead of going on a journey into strange territory, facing dangers as yet unknown?” he asked.

“Well, when you put it like that - _no_ ,” Geralt replied. “Whatever Vetinari’s got waiting for us, it’s not going to be _boring_. So as long as Ciri isn’t having trouble keeping the Empire together…” He shrugged. 

“Cirilla is doing quite well,” Emhyr told him. “I had  intended to put aside some time for her to act as regent shortly in any case, and the timing of this incident is not unfavourable. The unexpectedness of the situation will be a useful lesson for her. She is my heir, and she has my written authority: if a few weeks prove insurmountable for her and Morvran, better we should know it now.”

“Your written… How did you manage that? You can’t have gotten it to Vetinari in time for him to send it over -”

Emhyr looked steadily at him, head slightly tilted.

“Hold on. He had one _waiting_ already?”

“Certainly. In fact, he has several, to cover various possible situations.”

“Of course he does,” Geralt sighed.  How many of his do you have?”

“A few,” Emhyr said. “His political situation is somewhat less complex: rulership of Ankh-Morpork is not hereditary, and he has no heir to consider.”

Before Geralt could press him any further, the xenogloss in Emhyr’s hands started making noises at them. 

Ciri still hadn’t got her powers back, she told them: her attempts to create a portal had only caused the building to tremble in what felt like a minor earthquake, and she had reluctantly given the attempts up until Yennefer and the court wizards could either figure things out on their own or find Avallac’h for her. Apart from that, everything was fine - Ciri and Morvran had blocked some nobles’ attempts to put some of their family members in key positions while Emhyr was gone, and they were preparing to move back to Vizima to await Emhyr’s return.

“What’s the story about us?” Geralt asked.

“There are at least five conflicting rumours, plus the official explanation that the two of you are taking a couple of weeks off, travelling together,” Ciri told them. 

“How many of them come from Dijkstra?” Geralt asked.

“Just three, but they’re the worst ones,” Ciri answered smartly. “Oh, by the way, one of the rumours that we didn’t start is that Yennefer got rid of Emhyr to get Geralt back, and then got rid of Geralt when he wasn’t interested. Any suggestions on how we should handle that, if you still want her to bodyguard me?”

Emhyr thought for a few moments.

“Ignore them, for the time being. As long as you have the army and most of the nobles in hand, that rumour can do you little harm, and it may be useful to curtail what power Philippa Eilhart will try to amass.”

#

The last evening in Lancre castle was a lot more relaxed than Geralt’s first one. Magrat told them, beaming with satisfaction, how Verence had taken Geralt’s advice, and a couple of farmers were already planting the new strains of grain. Verence asked about Ciri, and spoke proudly of his and Magrat’s daughter. To Geralt, the whole evening felt oddly disconcerting, like being inside some sort of fairytale, a place where the world didn’t revolve around the next monster or the next threat to the throne. It took him a while to figure it out, and then he realised: this was what he’d been heading towards with Yennefer, before - going off to build a home, a place of their own, where they could just live. He’d made his choice, two years ago when he let Yennefer leave, and again a year back when he returned to Emhyr, and he hadn’t looked back, hadn’t regretted choosing palaces and intrigue and a whole world of monsters to fight, instead of the quiet cottage he and Yennefer had been heading towards. But it felt strange to suddenly have a taste of it, so unexpectedly, and he kept getting distracted by the unfamiliar familiarity of it. Emhyr glanced at him from time to time, not commenting on his silences.

When they got back up to their room, already mostly bare of what little they had brought with them, packs tidy in the corner, he pulled Emhyr in and kissed him, sweet and long and tenderly, in the soft light of the fire, in a room that already smelled like theirs. Geralt’s heart was pounding, and his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop holding, touching, kissing, taking him to bed and fucking him thoroughly until they both lay back panting and spent, and still he held on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next month: there will be actual travel happening! Plot and stuff! Promise!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks go to Ea who stepped in as a second beta reader for this chapter, and made me rewrite a scene greatly for the better.

The morning dawned crisp and cold, a light dusting of frost glittering in the courtyard as Geralt brought the luggage down. The witches had come to see them off; Geralt was fairly sure that, at least on Mistress Weatherwax’s side, it was mainly to make sure they actually left. Magrat and Verence made their farewells on the front steps of the castle, and Shawn helped Geralt carry their luggage out to the waiting coach, while stammering thanks and promises that he’d continue to practice.

The coach Vetinari had sent for them was fairly large, outfitted in black and gold, drawn by four black horses, and driven by a man who seemed to be cobbled together from bits and pieces held together by large stitches of black thread. Emhyr, of course, didn’t bat so much as an eyelid as the creature came up and bowed to them, greeting them with a lisp so bad that Geralt almost wished he carried an umbrella, or at least a shield.

“Lord Vetinari thendth hith betht regardth and hith thankth for your kind athithtance,” the patchwork man had said. “My name ith Igor, thur. Mathter hath inthtructed me to tell you that I and thith coach will be at your dithpothal for ath long ath you need.”

“Thank you, Igor,” Emhyr said. “How long do you estimate the journey to Zlobenia to take?”

“Three dayth, thur,” Igor answered. “Mathter will meet uth at the inn tonight.”

Emhyr inclined his head and climbed into the coach, while Geralt helped Igor get their packs onto the roof rack, joining the luggage already there.

Nanny Ogg came up to the coach as Geralt was lifting the last pack up, and handed a package to Igor and another to Geralt.

“That one’s for Igor who works at the Ankh-Morpork embassy in Bonk,” she said to Igor. “And _that_ one’s just in case you didn’t bring enough,” she told Geralt. “Can’t think they’ve got anything useful in Borogravia or Zlobenia. They don’t even have any real witches there. Probably think it’s an abomination anyway. Enjoy the ride!” she added, turning away before Geralt had a chance to thank her, much less figure out what she meant. He shrugged, stuffed the package in his pocket and got in the coach.

#

Riding in the coach was fairly boring, mostly because a coach sent by Vetinari was fully equipped with a pile of paperwork for Emhyr to bury himself in, and he refused to be wheedled into some recreation. But fortunately there were bandits on the roads: soon after they left the borders of Lancre, the coach was stopped for the first time. They weren’t very good at it though, so Geralt barely got any exercise: the leader lost a hand by reaching it into the coach, and the rest threw down their weapons before he could even get to them. Igor insisted on sewing the hand back on - which Geralt would have thought wasn’t possible, or at least not useful other than as a means of spreading gangrene - so the bandits ended up with no permanent damage except to their egos.

There was a second attack a couple of hours later, with much the same result, but after that either all gangs were elsewhere or rumour had gone before them. The last couple of hours before they got to the inn were uneventful, even though Geralt had cleverly stayed inside the coach so any bandits wouldn’t see his swords.

The inn wasn’t large, but it was clean enough and both the food and the ale smelled good. It was already full dark when they got there, though still early enough that the common room wasn’t crowded yet. Geralt looked around for the “mathter” Igor had said would be meeting them, but none of the old men sitting and talking quietly in a corner looked like someone who’d own a four-horse carriage.

Their room showed signs of some hasty rearrangement: there was a bed big enough to usually sleep three or four people in, and the floor had marks from a second one, where there was now a table and some chairs. Behind a screen, there was also a tub of steaming water: someone had clearly paid enough to make sure the innkeeper would make an effort for them.

Emhyr made a beeline for the tub, shedding his layers of winter clothing as he went, while Geralt arranged their packs in a corner. Stripping off his gloves and coat, he found the small package Nanny had given him, and opened it. It contained a jar of some greasy unguent, smelling faintly of comfrey. Now, what was that f - _oh._ Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d only packed supplies for a week: it might come in handy at some point. He hoped.

After they’d had their baths, and a dinner of plain but filling food, Igor came up to their room, followed by the big wolf hound they’d seen below. The hound settled itself by the door, giving half its focus to them and half to the sounds from the hallway.

“Mathter athked me to make thertain you underthtand the current thituation in Uberwald before we get to Bonk tomorrow,” Igor said,.

Emhyr nodded. “I have been given to understand that there is some controversy over the succession in Borogravia,” he said. “The country was ruled by a Duchess, who died some time ago, and Prince Heinrich, ruler of the neighbouring country of Zlobenia is her closest living relative. However, the Duchess herself - possibly posthumously - declared a young girl her heir, and the girl has the support of the Borogravian army. Prince Heinrich of Zlobenia, claiming to be the rightful heir, has again renewed the state of war between the countries.”

“Hang on,” Geralt interrupted. “ _Posthumously?_ ”

“Yeth, thur,” Igor said. “It ith thaid that the Duchess was already dead when she appeared to the leaders of the army and thpoke to them through the mouth of the girl, Princess Alice.”

“People actually _believe_ that?” Geralt asked.

“Yeth,” Igor said flatly. “I… There were witnetheth. Theveral, in fact. Many of the thenior offitherth.”

Geralt shrugged. For all he knew, it might even be true, and even if it wasn’t, he knew very well by now that people’s _belief_ in it was a fact in itself. When reality went up against a good story, reality generally didn’t stand a chance - that’s what Emhyr had paid Dandelion for, after all.

“If I may continue?” Emhyr said, sounding slightly annoyed.

“Sure, go ahead,” Geralt said. “So far I don’t see much point in us going there, though. You getting to that?” 

Emhyr pressed his lips together in more than slight annoyance, but continued.

“Should Zlobenia indeed annex Borogravia, it would at once become the largest country in Uberwald, thereby threatening the fragile balance of power in the region. Ankh-Morpork, as well as all of Zlobenia’s neighbours would prefer that this not happen; consequently the obvious solution, a marriage between the Prince and the young Duchess, is not under consideration. Further war between Zlobenia, Borogravia and any of their neighbours is also undesirable. Lord Vetinari and his allies would prefer that we find some solution to stabilise the region without causing any one country to gain too much power in relation to its neighbours.”

“Yeth, thur,” Igor said. “That more or leth thums it up, mathter thays.”

“So what does the Duchess think of this? The new one, I mean,” Geralt asked.

“She doeth not want war,” Igor replied. “But she altho doethn’t want her country to be ruled by Heinrich, and she definitely doesn’t want to marry him.”

“So, if someone would happen to come by and make sure she and her country get left in peace, she wouldn’t exactly mind?”

“That ith my mathter’s belief, thur,” Igor said.

“Is there anything else we should know?” Emhyr asked. “Does Lord Vetinari or your master have any suggestions on how to proceed?”

“Mathter thays we will get to the Ankh-Morpork embassy in Bonk tomorrow. The Ankh-Morpork ambathador to Uberwald will come with you to Zlobenia the nextht day.” Igor paused, looking towards the door. “Mathter thays there will be thome other people to meet you, too - thome friendth of your daughter.”

“May we know the name of your master?” Emhyr asked, glancing towards the door, where the hound still kept an ear cocked, listening for any sounds outside their door, while fixing his alert eyes on Emhyr.

“Thertainly, thur. Mathter is Andrei von Uberwald, the thon of the current baron von Uberwald. I believe your daughter met hith thithter in Ankh-Morpork thome dayth ago.”

Geralt looked at the hound again, more carefully this time. Now that he thought about it, it looked a lot more like a wolf than a wolf hound, though bigger and better groomed. But… He looked out through the small window, where the small sliver of a new moon was visible through the snow-laden trees. Normally he wouldn’t except to see a werewolf at the dark of the moon - but then, he recalled Vetinari writing some time ago that Angua was able to change pretty much whenever she chose: the condition here was under conscious control to a much greater extent than was the case with the werewolves he had met at home. It - _he_ \- looked back at Geralt, head slightly tilted, waiting for his reaction. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, nodding at the werewolf. Emhyr inclined his head regally in the same direction.

#

When they were left alone again, Emhyr went to the sheaf of documents he’d brought in from the coach and rifled through it.

“You may find these articles illuminating,” he said, handing Geralt some printed papers - Geralt recognised them: they were from the Ankh-Morpork Times, the same newspaper that had written about Ciri when she was gone.

If the articles were to be believed, a small group of women had disguised themselves as men, enlisted in the army, started out with taking Prince Heinrich prisoner and left him naked and humiliated, and finished by ending the entire war. Alice, the new Duchess, had been one of them.

Geralt looked up. 

“Huh. They don’t allow women soldiers there?”

Emhyr waved that point away.

“Look closer at the picture,” he said, pointing at one of the whole troop. Geralt did, though he couldn’t figure out why - it wasn’t as if he knew anyone there; Igor was the first person from Uberwald he’d ever met. Wait a minute…

“That’s him, isn’t it - Igor? Same scars,” Geralt said.

“That’s _her_ , yes,” Emhyr replied.


End file.
